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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27566134">The Method In His Madness</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inarichan/pseuds/Inarichan'>Inarichan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Works, Russian Mob - Fandom, The Equalizer (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Always falling for the villain, F/M, Tattoos, vor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:06:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,176</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27566134</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inarichan/pseuds/Inarichan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“He in his madness prays for storms, and dreams that storms will bring him peace.”<br/>Mikhail Lermontov</p><p>Behind the sociopathic facade lingers more. A living, breathing, hurting creature. In other words - Teddy, or better, Nikolai Itchenko is far from being emotionless. Actually, quite on the contrary. </p><p>My take on a rather cliché spin-off about my favorite movie villain there ever was and ever will be. Don’t judge me, please, I can’t help it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Method In His Madness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In retrospective I’m bound to admit that a wiser woman than myself would’ve most likely realised her error on the spot and would have turned around to run for the hills right then and there. But what can I say — I am far from being an even remotely wise woman. More like the kind of woman that not once had enough foresight to have a fallback strategy, a safety net. Taking the proverbial leap of faith into the abyss, that was my signature move.</p><p>You might think that madness in general has to be obvious on the very first glimpse. That it would cast a foreboding, menacing shadow of some sort, that some dramatic cinema score starts to play on cue in the background and maybe a sickening tingle in your stomach you can’t seem to put a finger on makes you nauseous.</p><p>Don’t fool yourself. None of it happens. No red flags, no warning signs. None. Of. It.</p><p>But let me rewind for you, back to the beginning. Back to a time where for once in my life everything seemed to work out smoothly. Up to that, I never took a straight road anywhere, I never went for the easy way. Whatever I did, it had to be complicated. Family, relationships, work — you name it, I screwed it up.<br/>
I didn’t lack education, intellect or social skill, au contraire, I just never seemed to be satisfied. But mother luck had me on her good karma list and so I scored the position of a personal assistant for the CEO of some high end IT security company operating world wide but descending from south Germany, my home area.<br/>
The job was rather well paid, included a large amount of traveling and most important: not a single day matched the other. Whoever would ask me what I enjoyed most about my line of work, I would always point out the variety of duties. But boy, did I know nothing about the surreal ups and downs my life was about to take.</p><p>Said ups and downs started innocently enough; I was ordered to head to Munich for a regular, two day long meeting. Quite  a few of our most important  Eastern European associates would be present and my job was to ensure that everything was going to plan and that everyone was satisfied. That was easy to accomplish, most of our partners from Poland or Russia were rather low maintenance. Give them a clean bed, good food and even better liquor, everyone’s as happy as a kid in a candy-shop. </p><p>I arrived the day before, around three in the afternoon and congratulated myself on this excellent decision, because that way, I would get to enjoy the decadent hotel rooms I had booked for everyone, courtesy of the Russian division. Apparently some new partners wanted to get into business with my company and claim their piece of the cake. To get into my CEO´s good graces they made it clear that any accommodations would be their treat. Hands down, I had made shameless use of that generous offer and that’s the story of how I ended in a luxurious junior suit in one of Munich’s first addresses, all to myself. The hotel not only had several exquisite restaurants but also a fancy nightclub located in the basement. I had done my homework and checked what performances were awaiting us over the next few days and I was beyond thrilled to learn that one of my favourite modern swing jazz combos from the states would be on stage that night. On a second note, I was perfectly fine with going there on my own, more so, it excited me even further. </p><p>The early morning flight I had to take in order to get to my hometown, the rushed hauling together of my things and the dull train ride to Munich had now taken their toll on me and so I found myself lounged lazily on the heavenly king size bed facing the large floor to ceiling windows. The interior was dominated by dark blue and chocolate brown, the lush royal blue carpet so thick my feet sank in when padded barefoot over from the bathroom.<br/>
Oh, the bathroom. That almost naughtily decadent bathroom.<br/>
To my utter glee it not only had a spacious glass shower but also a large garden tub with delicate brass faucets. For the fourth time since the cute boy who brought up my luggage had introduced me to the suite and all its glory I wondered what it would cost to simply move in here. After all, Lucky Luciano was a permanent resident of the New York Waldorf Astoria back in the twenties and early thirties. A content sigh escaped my lips while I stretched languidly on the soft white sheets that covered the thick mattress.  </p><p>My thoughts wandered off and a rather odd encounter from earlier that afternoon came to my mind.  As mentioned before, a bellboy had been instructed to show me to my suite and thus steered me from the main reception counter over to the elevators leading up to the rooms. When the lift made a soft tinkling noise, indicating that the doors were about to slide open, the young boy gestured for me to step in first. I hadn’t even made a move towards the doors when I heard a smooth, deep and unmistakable masculine voice speaking in what I immediately recognised as the melodic Russian I often heard when talking to offices and such. The owner of the rich Baritone had seemingly pushed the hold button inside, because they wouldn’t open at once. His tone was of distinctive authority, obviously he had an important point to make. Finally the doors slid wide open and I found myself not only eye level with the front of a really nice, royal blue dress shirt, but more so, the wearer of the shirt and also owner of the voice almost crashed into me, one hand still pushing the “open door” button impatiently while talking to his counterpart on the phone,  voice now noticeably irritated.  My sense of smell had barely time to register the expensive aftershave the Russian wore when he stepped back, the hand pushing the button automatically reaching out to steady wether me from stumbling backwards or himself before he could waltz all over me. Mind me, I’m not even that small or lithe, he simply towered over me by what must’ve been a full head length. He barked a last command into his phone, stowed it quickly in his dress jacket and stood back to let me catch my breath. All the while the luggage carrier blocked the elevator doors, the boys mouth wide agape. On steady feet once again I looked up and my gaze was met by a pair of what I can only describe as the most unusual hazel green eyes I ever saw. He was now fully focused on me and his piercing glance was so intense, it cost me some serious willpower not to avoid his eyes. What really rattled me was the fact that I couldn’t read his face, it was a facade of poised calmness but something still raged behind those eyes. I oppressed the urge to take a further step back, but in reality I wasn’t even exactly sure if he actually looked at me or still had the matter at hand on his mind.<br/>
What I knew for sure was one thing - I didn’t want to be at the receiving end of this mans wrath. There was no way to put a finger on what caused this feeling, but the thought alone sent a chill down my spine.</p><p>I was saved by the bell when other guests approached the elevator behind me and the boy ushered me inside. The dark haired stranger inclined his head politely and apologised in flawless and also almost accent-less English, his hand still cradling my elbow in a surprisingly gentle but firm hold. His grip loosened and with a last roaming glance over my appearance, he stepped out of the elevator, grazing my arm and shoulder in the process due to the impatient people flowing in. I automatically turned around with him and before the doors slid close I caught him still studying my face with slightly narrowed eyes, as if he aimed to memorise my features. The chill down my spine intensified without me knowing why. He wasn’t outwardly threatening or intimidating. But something behind his calm, unmoved expression made me squirm.</p><p>Even now, within the walls of my room, his gaze still unsettled me in weird ways. My brain  recreated the not unwelcome image of his face. He had the impeccable, poised looks of a business man, a successful one. He had to be in his late forties, but his perfectly coiffed, slightly slicked back hair didn’t show any signs of silver intertwined in its dark brown. He was very attractive, I had to give him that. Classic features, sharp bone structure and a strong jaw. A thought fleetingly crossed my mind,  his skin tone was a little to tanned for a suit behind a desk, but I let the thought go in favour of trying to remember his body type. Tall, that much I could recall. Oh, and of course there were the wide expanse of his pectorals; I sighed unintentionally at the memory of the way the starched but smooth fabric of his shirt had  stretched over the taut planes of muscle. Broad shoulders maybe? I wasn’t entirely sure. I had been practically hypnotised by the way he had locked his eyes with mine. My senses clearly went in some sort of overdrive, given that even now I believed to smell the faint scent of his aftershave. Something expensive I assumed, sandal wood, ginger and something gentler; lavender maybe? I eagerly drew air into my lungs. When I realised what was doing, a small, breathless laugh rose in my throat, I could hardly believe how fundamentally this only seconds long encounter had ruffled my feathers. </p><p>Picking up my cellphone to check the time I realised that I should probably drag myself under the shower and decide on my outfit for the night. Groaning quietly I got up and shuffled over to the closet. I considered my options, thankfully there were quite a few due to my over excessive packing. Following a sudden gut instinct I choose an elegant silk jumpsuit with a narrow waist and long, widely flaring legs. The colour was a vibrant, deep shade of moss green which complimented my pale, flawless complexion and copper hair. Scrutinising my reflection in the tall mirror next to the dresser I once again silently thanked my mother who was accountable for my skin type and colours.  </p><p>That matter solved I stepped under the shower and revelled in the feeling of the hot water falling down heavy on my sore shoulders. As always I had brought my own lavender scented body wash; I liked the soothing effect the essential oil had on my often jumpy nerves. </p><p>After I had dried off and managed to detangle my long hair I put on a black, strapless lace bra and matching panties, slid the cool silk of the jumpsuit over my skin and black croco leather heels on my feet. A delicate black leather belt accentuated the tightly fitted waist and the thin silken straps that held the suit on my shoulders gave a perfect view on my collarbones and cleavage. My make-up was not overly dramatic, but made my blue eyes shine even brighter and my high cheekbones more prominent. I felt confident and beautiful the way I looked tonight and it probably showed in my entire demeanour. </p><p>I grabbed my elegant black clutch and headed to the elevator, briefly looking up and down the hallway in unveiled hope to see the dark, handsome Russian again. Given that he came out of the elevator from above, I was positive that he also resided in the hotel as a guest. Entering the lift I could have sworn that his aftershave was still in the air, but I downplayed it as wishful thinking. </p><p>The elevator went down directly to the underground levels where the nightclub was located. For a moment I opted to have a bite to eat in one of the restaurants but decided against it; there would be the option to order something during the night and I really didn’t want to miss the performance from the start.</p><p>The nightclub was an institution since decades, a place where the cities who is who would meet and manage business, where forbidden lovers could met in the dark  — an amazing place to spent a raucous night. Dim light and the smell of expensive cigars welcomed me when the elevator doors slid open and immediately I felt excitement and a weird desire race up my spine. I had no idea where it came from and shoved it to the back of my mind, making my way through the small, sparsely lit tables.<br/>
Small groups of people were already seated in the lounge areas or standing at the several bars, chatting and laughing. Fancy looking women, expensively dressed by their undoubtedly very rich husbands, fawned over the handsome bartenders, while business men gathered around low glass tables in heavy leather Chesterfield armchairs. I took my sweet time to circle the room, winding through the tables and letting my gaze roam over the faces out there in the crowd. The room was dark, illuminated only by the lampshades on the tables and indirect lighting. The sitting arrangements appeared as small, inviting islands amidst the shadows and it reminded me of what I imagined that the nightclubs in Chicago and New York must’ve looked like back when the mafia still ran the cities.<br/>
In my early twenties I had developed an obsession for anything related to the mob; I did my recherché on all the famous hoodlums, read every book I could find on the various groups of organised crime, studied old photographs and so on. My romantic visions had clashed hard with the bloody and grim reality, but that made it even more fascinating in my opinion. </p><p>The image of handsome mobsters in nice three piece suits still vivid on my mind, I came to a sudden halt in my tracks. The route ahead was leading past a group of four leather chairs on a balcony above the dance floor and stage area. And in the innermost seat, right next the passage I would walk by, my mysterious Russian sat. My confident strut faltered slightly and I had to do a serious double take. When pieces fell into place too easily it always left a suspicious feeling in my guts, and now was no exception. But that strange attraction I had subdued so far consumed my consciousness, even stronger than before, persistently lodging itself into the base of my skull and radiating throughout my whole body from there.<br/>
He was chatting with two men sitting across from him and I did a quick scan of their faces, trying to compare them to the pictures I had seen in the dossiers of my companies associates. None of the three looked familiar, plus the two companions of Mr Elevator didn’t look like Russians, more like doughy Americans. I slowed my steps a little and tried to make out their voices while approaching, and sure enough, even if could not make out from afar what they were taking about, they were conversing in English. </p><p>Just when I considered to take another route and calm the confusion inside my head, Mr Elevator turned his head in my direction, zooming in on my face in a split second and I could watch his features changing from slightly bored (seemingly by the two yankees at his table) to genuinely surprised and finally to an expression of unashamed appreciation. His eyes roamed my body from head to toe und then locked again with mine. I didn’t dare to look away or else he would disappear into thin air, again and so I continued to walk towards him, deliberately slowing my pace. For a second the hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched me approaching before his features returned to the stoic, composed mask. One of his companions obviously tried hard to get his attention and he unwillingly turned his head slightly, answering the guy’s question without breaking eye contact. His posture seemed relaxed, his legs crossed in an elegant display of masculinity. I fleetingly let my gaze wander over his appearance, admiring his athletic build in that perfectly fitted, anthracite three piece suit. The fabric smoothed over his broad shoulders and down his muscular arms which were resting comfortably on the cushioned armrests. My eyes found his again and there was some kind of amusement in those beautiful green depths.<br/>
By now I was only three steps away and when I finally passed him, his head rose to follow me. His hand moved almost imperceptibly, his fingers brushing against mine, capturing them for only a brief moment. His touch sent a pleasant, warm tingle up my arm, and I didn’t withdraw my hand until the last second. No one aside him and myself seemed to have noticed that moment of intimacy, his peers went on rambling about some business issues.<br/>
Against my strong desire to linger, I continued walking, not trusting my voice enough to stop and address him, especially in front of the other men at his table. Without another look back I made a beeline through the people that were now flowing in and found the most secluded bar at the far end of the room to hide from my own, confused feelings.</p><p>The stage and dance floor were in my line of sight as I took a seat on a bar stool. It was still a bit early and the seats to my left and right were still deserted.<br/>
The barkeeper came over and due to his lack of other guests he took it on himself to entertain me, asking for whatever good he could do for me. We chatted for a few minutes and I proceeded to inquire about his available choices of vodka. I preferred a high quality vodka over any sweet cocktail or champagne. He listed the brands he could offer and I contemplated for a moment what I should order. I chose an authentic Russian Stolychnaya, no ice but with a slice of lime - my signature drink. The bartender turned to prepare my drink and precisely in that moment I was caught entirely off guard by the smooth baritone that spoke up from right behind me.<br/>
“You have excellent taste. Not only when it comes to fine vodka, I might add.“<br/>
I rotated my chair slowly and sure enough, the man who had occupied my thoughts for the last few hours stood mere inches from me,  leaning against the chair next to mine.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please, be kind and forgive any errors - English is not my native tongue and I’m writing just for the guilty pleasure.<br/>I’m but a humble servant...</p></blockquote></div></div>
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